


Breathless

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 09:36:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8157503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: That bit  in episode Death of a Hero where Aramis and Porthos are playing with bottles, then turn up at the garrison half naked (aramis) and breathless and wincing (Porthos). This is what happened in between those two scenes.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).



> I posted this on Tumblr, then took it down in a fit of irritation with myself, and now here it is again. I will try not to delete it over and over eternally. It is the first time I've written anything quite so explicit. Like, there are descriptions and sex and all KINDS of stuff going on!

Porthos is charming. He’s easy, polite, laughing, as he meanders through their onlookers collecting their money. Aramis leans to watch, to watch Porthos’s body beneath that flappy shirt, to remind himself of the way he moves, the way his body language adjusts depending on who’s he talking to. With the small and vulnerable, he’s either small and vulnerable too, or big and safe. With the bluff and argumentative he’s just enough threatening to make them simmer down, but mostly he’s bouncy and warm, too good natured to fight. With those who want to question whether Aramis was really blindfolded, his body language goes languid with amusement. It doesn’t matter, Porthos’s body seems to say, if it’s real or not. It’s the spectacle, the suggestion. And then there’s the gentle reminder that this person is questioning Aramis’s skill, and Porthos is Aramis’s bottle-thrower, cheerleader, promoter, and while Aramis has delicate skill with the pistol, Porthos is gonna protect his investment. His friend. The crowd gives up it’s money with an easy chattering grace, joyful to have Porthos talking to them, have him among them, breaking off his patter to laugh and joke and complement them, bicker about the blindfold. 

 

“You do this very well,” Aramis says, when Porthos comes back clinking, straightening up, suffusing his voice with warmth. 

 

“Yeah,” Porthos grunts, irritation over-riding the good cheer he’s had so far, this morning. A note of bitterness creeping in. “Learnt how to beg early, didn’t I? It’s a skill we always knew how to exploit.”

 

Aramis falls into step beside him, not touching, not speaking, not letting his sigh escape. Porthos is still sore about Aramis and the monastery. This morning had been good, a reversion of sorts, Porthos banging into Aramis’s rooms and unearthing him from the covers (not at all bothered by Aramis’s nakedness, not interested in it either), thrown clothes enthusiastically at him, and told him to get his favourite pistols. He’d talked about the food he’d buy with their takings all the way to what Porthos deemed a good place for entertaining masses. Now he’s sullen and silent. Aramis hums, accidentally, a bawdy tune. He’d got good at stilling such things before giving them voice, as a monk, but he’s in Paris now and falling back into habits. 

 

“Where you going?” Porthos growls, when Aramis heads for the garrison. 

 

“To my rooms, and then to breakfast?” Aramis suggests, tentative, trying not to piss Porthos off. Which he seems to do just by existing these days. 

 

Porthos grabs him and drags him down a side-street. Aramis doesn’t protest, or ask questions. He lets Porthos keep hold of his upper arm and lead him to a house. Porthos walks right in. Aramis doesn’t ask. Porthos is greeted by a woman who smells of laundries. Aramis doesn’t comment or make a joke about lovers. Porthos takes them into a set of rooms. Aramis doesn’t ask whose they are or who they’re visiting or why. Porthos sets their money, his hat, his own pistol, his sword, in a clatter on a table, and removes his boots, then stands bare foot watching Aramis, belligerent look on his face. 

 

“Will the owner of these rooms take issue with you making yourself at home?” Aramis ventures, after a while, daring to look around. 

 

Porthos snorts, and takes Aramis’s hat and pistols, tossing them carelessly on top of his own things. And then, Aramis isn’t quite sure of the moments between but there must have been at least one he’s forgotten because then he’s pressed hard against a bare wall by the window, Porthos right up against him, breathing tight and loud. Aramis, startled but not afraid, looks into Porthos’s eyes, meeting them, he realises, for the first time today. Porthos’s frustrated, stormy eyes. 

 

“Uh, you’re angry with me?” Aramis suggests. 

 

“Always angry with you,” Porthos mutters. “Shut up.”

 

“Okay. Only, I didn’t think I did anything specific today to irritate you. Surely? I mean, you obviously know I wasn’t implying anything about begging, when I complimented you. I was actually thinking more about how you looked. This shirt is-”

 

“Shut up,” Porthos repeats, eyes raking over Aramis. 

 

“No talking today, then. We haven’t really talked yet, though, Porthos,” Aramis says. “And we should. Because you’re clearly upset about me being a monk. And not joining the war. I get why, you’ve told me why. Isn’t there-”

 

“Shut. Up. Now.”

 

Aramis can’t seem to. Porthos helps him- he tugs the blindfold sharply from his pocket and stuffs it in Aramis’s mouth. Aramis can’t spit it out, and he can’t get his arms free, so it’s effective. He wonders what Porthos is going to do next. All Porthos does, though, is step back, keeping hold of Aramis’s wrists so he can’t get the gag out. He looks pleased, now. Not angry anymore. And faintly amused. 

 

“That’s better,” he says. 

 

Aramis raises his eyebrow. It’s about all he can do, but he’s good at it. Porthos smiles widely at his silence. 

 

“Always talking,” Porthos murmurs, moving close again, breath against Aramis’s face, hot and threatening. Only he’s not threatening. He’s-

 

Oh.

 

Well.

 

Aramis shoves his hips up, away from the wall, and Porthos growls. 

 

“Am I gonna have to tie you up as well as gagging you, to get you proper quiet and well behaved?” Porthos asks, shoving him back into the wall, hard. “Stay. Still. Do not move.”

 

Aramis stays as still as he can, considering he’s beginning to tremble inside as excitement makes his blood rise, his heart pound, his breathing speed up. Porthos moves around the room, putting things away, getting rid of an old plate and mug by setting them in the hallway outside the room, leaving the door wide open, showing Aramis, against the wall, arms out, mouth gagged. Aramis barely breathes until the door closes again, and Porthos lets the lock fall into place. These are, Aramis has finally caught on, Porthos’s rooms. Which is surprising. Porthos has rooms at the garrison, the same as the rest of them. What does he need these for? Other than buggering Aramis in private. Aramis can’t help the shiver at that thought, and gets a glare as his hips shift slightly. Porthos comes back over and removes the gag.

 

“You gonna be quiet?” Porthos asks. Aramis nods. “Good. Sit there.”

 

Aramis sits. Porthos nods, tugs his boots back on, and then leaves the room, unlocking the door and leaving it open. Aramis hears his feet on the stairs, his voice calling to his landlady, and then the front door out into the street banging shut. Aramis does as he’s told, and sits, waiting. Wondering where Porthos has gone now. Wonder if, perhaps, he’s being played, and Porthos is now just going to leave him here all day, and get him into trouble with Athos for not reporting. Porthos’s hat is on the back of a chair, though, his blade and cloak are in their place behind the door. Besides, Porthos isn’t a man who enjoys manipulation. When he comes back, stepping into the room and shutting and locking the room again, a box of fruit in his arms, Aramis looks up and meets his eyes, opening his mouth. 

 

“Shut up,” Porthos says, sitting at the table with a grunt, setting the box before him.

 

“I will,” Aramis says, and his tone must tell Porthos something, because he waves a permissive hand. “I apologize for implying you played the crowd to get their coin.”

 

“Though that is what I did,” Porthos says, sitting back, smiling a little. More relaxed. Aramis smiles back. 

 

“May I?” He asks, indicating the box. 

 

“It’s not good stuff,” Porthos warns. “I pick it up from a friend for a few pennies, what he can’t sell at market. Mostly bruised or rotting.”

 

Aramis shrugs, and gets up, drawing his knife. He turns Porthos’s chair, so he can straddle Porthos’s thighs, and reaches into the box for a peace. Sure enough, it’s too soft, most of it barely edible. Aramis slices off a good piece and holds it out for Porthos between his fingers. Porthos takes it, lips over Aramis’s fingers, sucking lightly. Aramis chooses an apricot next, and then an apple. Porthos eats each piece he’s offered, licking and sucking the juice off Aramis’s fingers, his hand, his wrist. He takes hold of Aramis’s knife-hand, and brings it to his lips, holding Aramis’s gaze, tongue running over the flat of the blade, chasing the sweet juice over Aramis’s knuckles, his wrist. Aramis shudders. 

 

“I’m not angry,” Porthos says, dropping the knife still in Aramis’s grip. 

 

“No?” Aramis says, letting his forehead rest against Porthos’s. He sets the knife on the table and links his fingers behind Porthos’s neck, cradling the back of his head. “Alright. Do you want to talk?”

 

“No. I’m not angry, Aramis. I’m hurt,” Porthos says. “I’m upset, you upset me. I’m sad, and hurt, and torn to pieces by this war, by the futility of it all. It’s not even you, all the time, but here you are, in my lap, taking responsibility as if you’re my entire world. So clearly you know why I’m hurt.”

 

Aramis doesn’t answer. Porthos huffs and shakes his head, but Aramis keeps hold, pressing his nose gently beside Porthos’s, then kissing him. Porthos groans into it, hands falling to Aramis’s hips, gripping hard. Tugging. 

 

“Do you still trust me?” Aramis asks, voice a hoarse whisper, pulling back so he can see Porthos’s eyes again. He gets his answer there before Porthos says anything. It’s instinctual, instant, and gratifying. There’s not the old warmth there, not the joy, but there is still the trust. 

 

“Yes,” Porthos confirms. “Always.”

 

“Then we’ll start there,” Aramis says. “Despite what it may seem, I don’t expect everything between us to fall back to how it was. Athos, yes, he’s my brother and always has to love me, despite anything. d’Artagnan, sure, he’s young and restless and understood, and he had other concerns and other people to watch his back. But not you.”

 

“Shut up,” Porthos says, eyes falling shut. “So much talking.”

 

“Mm,” Aramis agrees. “Less talking. Who needs it?”

 

“Show me,” Porthos says, opening his eyes again and sitting up, head knocking into Aramis’s cheek but gently. “Show me.”

 

Aramis reaches for his knife again, letting Porthos go. There’s still some apples in the box, another soft peach, three apricots. Aramis cuts the good fruit from the stones and core, feeding it slice by slice to Porthos. He bends to lick the juice from Porthos’s lips, the taste from his mouth, and Porthos’s hand drop back to his hips with a groan, head tipping against the chair-back, mouth falling open. Aramis is pulled forwards, his arse firmly against Porthos’s groin, against the hardness there. Aramis steadies himself and takes the last apricot, the skin coming loose against his fingers, soft fruit smearing his hand and his knife. He gives Porthos what’s good then drops the rest back into the box, offering his hand, his knife, for Porthos again. He lets the sharp of blade rest a moment against Porthos’s shoulder, when he’s done, then sets it aside. Porthos is panting, breath coming harsh and fast. Aramis rests a hand on his chest a moment, offering calm, and then wriggles to break Porthos’s hold on him so he can get Porthos’s ridiculous shirt off. 

 

“What is this for?” Aramis asks, tugging it out of Porthos’s trousers, undoing his belt to make it easier. “Is this your idea of looking smart?”

 

Porthos lunges forward, teeth closing around his bottom lip and tugging a moment before letting go in favour of sucking and kissing. Aramis pulls Porthos’s shirt up under his armpits and waits, kissing him gently back, soothing. Porthos lets go and sits back a little, and Aramis gets the shirt off over his head. Porthos emerges bright eyed, smiling. He lets out a laugh and shifts, then stands. Aramis yelps in surprise, wrapping his legs around Porthos’s hips to he doesn’t fall. Porthos gets a hand under Aramis’s bum and hoists him up, muscles tensing. Aramis leans into his body, kisses his neck, and hangs on as he’s carried trough to the bedroom. Porthos drops to the edge of the bed and they bounce, setting them both laughing. 

 

“You’re no less strong than I remember,” Aramis says. “All those night in the monastery, in my small hard bed, I couldn’t help dreaming.”

 

“Shh,” Porthos reminds him.

 

Aramis hums in agreement, but whispers filthy things that Porthos can listen to or not, about darkness and unbidden, untethered thoughts, about Porthos, as he’s laid out on the bed and stripped. When Porthos rises, Aramis sits up to watch him get out of his trousers and underclothes, unashamed, uncaring of the amused look Porthos gives him. Porthos’s new nakedness is bared to him and Aramis catches his breath. Sharp, badly stitched scars spread over Porthos’s hip and back, his left thigh, marks of swords and musket ball and who knew what else. Aramis reaches, and Porthos comes, eyes following as Aramis’s hand feel over the scarred skin. He’s distracted by the new muscle, familiar yet unfamiliar, the shape of the body different. Thighs bigger, stomach tauter, waist thicker. Aramis pulls him down to better explore, to get a hand on his arse. There’s new muscle there, too. Porthos laughs, so Aramis pushes his hip, getting him on his back, and runs a hand over his stomach to his hip and then to his thigh, holding him. 

 

“This is still the same,” Aramis murmurs, wrapping his free hand around Porthos’s cock. 

 

Porthos reaches up to touch Aramis’s pectoral muscle, thumb over his nipple, and then he shifts, gently suggesting. Aramis turns, lets Porthos straddle him, examining in his turn. Above Aramis, Porthos’s hair is longer, his face also newly scared, his shoulders wide, his arms heavily muscled. No wonder the children thought him a giant. Aramis remembers when he returned from Savoy. He hadn’t thought about Porthos much, before that. The big, loud, brawling musketeer hadn’t cared for sword-work, hadn’t cared for the manners and rules and chivalry Aramis had been cultivating. After Savoy, though, Aramis had sat a lot, dazed, the world hazy and heavy around him. Porthos had sat beside him, silent. And Aramis had learnt how much more to him there was. Porthos had been quiet and patient and taken Aramis under his wing, tucked him close, protected him and built him up. So when Porthos had been down, soaking wet after guard duty, miserable, Aramis had taken him to bed. As a panacea, as he’d learnt with his mother- sex as comfort and joy, as something of an agreement between people. As something positive. His mother never taught him the other side of her job, and he’d never asked. Porthos’s body had surprised him a little, with it’s litheness. 

 

The next morning, watching Porthos dress, he’d learnt how Porthos built himself out of his clothing- widening his shoulders, thickening out his waist and thighs, boot-heels high to make him taller than the rest. It wasn’t not just the clothing, Porthos had held himself and spoken and fought as if he was much larger. He’d projected and lowered his voice, roughened his accent even as it refined, being around the richer musketeers. He brawled and showed no interest in sword-play to complete the picture of a big, brawling, rough musketeer with little interest in anything but praise and glory, in fighting his way up. Now, above Aramis, hands on Aramis, eyes on Aramis, he needs none of that. He’s thickened out, his attitude and stance makes him a giant. Aramis smiles, though, touching Porthos’s cheek, and Porthos looks up. There’s the warmth, the intelligence. There’s the giant. Porthos might not know, but that’s what the children saw in him that made them think there was more to him than the musketeers uniform, more to him than was possible.

 

“You think as loud as you talk,” Porthos grumbles. “Here I am trying to make you fuck me and there you are, floating in the past somewhere. You’re face ain’t changed in four years, Aramis. Christ.”

 

Porthos sucks in a sudden breath and tugs until Aramis sits up and embraces him, pressing into Aramis’s shoulder, shivering. Not from arousal, either. 

 

“I’m right here,” Aramis says. 

 

For once, it’s the right thing to say. Porthos relaxes into Aramis’s hug, and Aramis holds him. Porthos’s cock is an insistent weight against his thigh, but Aramis ignores it, looking to other needs for the moment. He rubs comforting circles over Porthos’s shoulders. They stay like that for a while, Porthos softening a little, resting in Aramis’s arms with an ease that Aramis has missed deeply. He runs a hand over Porthos’s shoulder blade, down to his ribs, over his side. Porthos shifts a little in his arms, interested. Aramis grins against Porthos’s neck, pressing a little, affectionate kiss there. Porthos is basically in his lap, which is a good place to have him. Aramis flexes his thighs, and Porthos shifts again, his own thighs tensing. Aramis chuckles. 

 

“Well get on with it, then,” Porthos says, grumbling at the teasing. 

 

Aramis wraps a hand over Porthos’s side, over his ribs, feeling them expand with each breath. His other hand he runs down over Porthos’s arse cheek to his thigh, then lifts. Porthos laughs, falling more properly into Aramis’s lap. Aramis compensates for his weight by spreading his thighs wider, then gets both hands on Porthos’s arse, massaging. 

 

“Want to be buggered thoroughly?” he asks, dipping his thumb between Porthos’s cheeks. 

 

Porthos grunts, head falling onto Aramis’s shoulder again. Aramis takes that as a ‘yes’. He doesn’t start with Porthos’s arse. He starts with his neck and shoulders, finding the sensitive places, testing to see if what he remembers, what he dreamed, is still true. His thumb finds the place behind Porthos’s ear and he turns his head, kissing Porthos’s cheek. He gets distracted by the bit of Porthos’s face he can see, his shut eyes, his cheek, his lips and beard and hair. He looks older, but like this, relaxed and at his ease, pleased, he still has that look about him that he used to get when he slept. Not child-like, exactly. Beautiful, cares lifted, not innocent but not torn apart by the world and what it does to him. Safety, his face safe, and Aramis is going to give him just that, for as long as he possibly can. 

 

Then Porthos’s muscles bunch, arm reaching up to get the headboard, knocking Aramis back against it, hips pushing against Aramis’s stomach and hip. It reminds Aramis of what he’s supposed to be doing right now, Porthos’s cock hard and insistent. There’s more space between their bodies, now, and Aramis can run his hands over Porthos’s stomach, his chest, feeling the tensing muscles, the breathlessness, reading Porthos’s arousal in the catch, the sucked in breath, the roll and heave of his body against Aramis’s hands, the twitch of his muscles as Aramis rubs and teases. Aramis lets his hands wander down again, to Porthos’s thigh, and encourage him to get off Aramis. 

 

He lies on his stomach, knees under him, head pillowed against his arm. Aramis kneels behind him, pushing his own cock down when it gets in the way. He shifts so he’s up tight behind Porthos, his cock against Porthos’s thigh. He reaches around, giving Porthos a fond squeeze and pull, then kneels back and kisses Porthos cheek, before pushing and squeezing with his hand, watching the way the muscle and meat pushes up Porthos’s back, the way Porthos rocks into it, spreading his thighs a little. 

 

“Come on, then,” Porthos says again. 

 

“We need something,” Aramis says. 

 

Porthos sits up, looking around the bare room in consternation. Put on consternation, Aramis realises, slower than he would’ve in the past but fast enough that Porthos’s sudden sharp grin and laugh aren’t a surprise. Prothos gets up and pads out to the other room, then returns with a small jar. Aramis watches his arse as he goes, and his cock and hips as he comes back- the sway, his thick cock bouncing until he gets a hand on it. Aramis raises his eyes up Porthos’s toned stomach to his chest and then his face. He smiles at the look his finds there. Amused, pleased, a little shy. Porthos tosses him the jar and sits on the bed, giving himself a few pulls. 

 

“It’s thick oil, with a bit of grease. You don’t wanna know where I got it, but I’m gonna tell you anyway. I got it from the kitchen, it’s for cooking. It’s already had pig cooked in it,” Porthos says. “I know a man who uses pomade, but this is cheaper and works.”

 

“Oh?” Aramis asks, eyebrows rising, not bothering to keep the jealousy out of his voice, or the heat, or the interest. 

 

“Oh yeah,” Porthos says. “ _ I _ wasn’t no monk.”

 

“Tell me, but not now,” Aramis says. 

 

Porthos grins, and gets back onto the bed, lying on his front again. This time he spreads his thighs wide and arches his back, and Aramis’s breath catches, cock twitching a little. Porthos snorts, relaxing. When Aramis spreads him, though, his back arches again. Aramis kisses him, the musk and sweat of him strong and familiar. Aramis can tell that Porthos has cleaned himself. This was expected, to Porthos. Aramis has to take a deep breath to calm himself from that thought, then kisses again, licking too. He massages Porthos’s cheek as he works, loosening, relaxing, teasing. Porthos is still, but his breathing is harsh again, and his lets out little grunts and moans. Aramis starts using his fingers against his hole, pressing and rubbing, adding a little greasy oil. If it’s for cooking, he figures, it’s okay to ingest, so he keeps using his mouth, kissing and licking. 

 

He takes his time, with his fingers, using one hand. With the other he switches between spreading Porthos, rubbing his thigh, giving his cock and balls some attention, rubbing over his stomach. As Porthos loosens, Aramis presses closer, his cock against Porthos, kissing his back. He feels the trembles in Porthos’s muscles, the give and tense of it as Porthos starts to rock, breathing harder, gasps and curses slipping out as Aramis works him wider, adds more fingers, thumb massaging and pushing against Porthos’s rim. His own hips are shifting against Porthos’s tense thigh, and he’s leaking, dampening Porthos’s skin. Not that it needs it, Porthos is sweaty. Trembly, sweaty, glorious in the morning light as he rocks, voice getting higher, bitten off as he loses his breath. Aramis pulls his fingers out and kneels up so he can spread himself over Porthos, reach his neck, his jaw. Porthos turns and Aramis kisses him, sharing the taste of oil and Porthos. He lets his cock rub against Porthos for a moment, hands rubbing over Porthos’s sides, his ribs, his back, soothing the straining muscles. 

 

“Do you want to move?” Aramis murmurs. 

 

Porthos shakes his head, letting his head drop back to his arm, the other arm moving away so Aramis can see his face. His eyes wide, pupils wide, sightless, mouth open, nostrils flared. Aramis recognises the look, has dreamt of it. It’s better like this, real. The detail of Porthos’s face had faded a little over time, and the reality, the alive-ness, the bright joy and sweat and breathing of it, this is better. He gets up so he can kiss Porthos, then he kneels behind him and spreads his cheeks, rubs his thumb over his hole, and then guides himself to press there. It pushes the breath out of Porthos, but Aramis doesn’t stop until he’s inside. He rests then, giving Porthos time to tremble and shake against the start of it, running a hand over his thigh, his hip, curling around his cock to give a few pulls. He rests the hand on Porthos’s stomach for a moment, then on the small of his back, rubbing until Porthos nods. When he’s fully in, Porthos waves a hand to stop him. Aramis stills while Porthos pants and grunts and curses. 

 

“Forgot how it hurts,” Porthos mutters. 

 

“Thought you weren’t a monk,” Aramis says, amused. 

 

“You’ve a fat cock on you,” Porthos counters, getting his breath a bit. 

 

“Who were you with?” Aramis asks, curious now, half interesting in hearing about Porthos’s exploits, half after gossip. 

 

“None of your business,” Porthos says, pushing back a little bit and cursing again. “No one as fat as you. What’ve you been eating?”

 

Aramis laughs, unable to help himself, and leans forward so he can sort of wrap an arm around Porthos, kissing his back. While he’s there he figures he might as well get Porthos’s cock in his hand, the familiar weight of it, the slight lean to the left, the scar right at the top that Aramis never asks about because, ouch.  Porthos hums, breathing easing, and Aramis pulls back a little, rocking his hips very gently. He has to press a hand to Porthos’s back to still himself again, he’s hard, and this is Porthos, and it’s familiar and not familiar and exciting, and Porthos is beautiful, laid out before him, back arching slightly, muscles shifting under skin. Aramis’s breathing catches and speeds up. Porthos shifts again and Aramis starts a slow, careful rhythm. 

 

Porthos is quiet under him, but he indicates with small nods and gestures when Aramis hurts him or when it feels good. Aramis goes carefully, as carefully as he needs to, his thighs shaking with the restraint, stomach tense and trembling. His hair’s stuck to his face with sweat, and his arm’s beginning to ache, his hand still against Porthos’s back, the other on Porthos’s hip. Porthos starts moving in time, not every thrust but more and more, his breathing heaving through him. He’s damp with sweat, dampening the sheets and blankets under him, dampening Aramis’s palms. His cock’s hard enough to leak a little, too. Aramis lets out a long groan, giving up on restraining his voice, and starts to tell Porthos a dream like this. 

 

“Okay, okay, hang on,” Porthos says, interrupting the story. 

 

He shifts until Aramis pulls out, kneeling back, a little confused. Porthos gets up and stretches, wincing, then manipulates Aramis till he’s on his back against the pillows, then straddles his thighs. Aramis gets the idea and his cock jerks against his stomach, amusing Porthos. Aramis grunts, and Porthos apologises, giving it a fond squeeze. He gets up into a crouch, and takes Aramis’s hands, guiding them to his hips. Aramis holds him, helping him as he sinks onto Aramis’s cock. His thighs are shaking, slippery with sweat and oil. Aramis keeps a good hold on him, helping him the last inch. Porthos lets out a cut off sound of pain and pleasure and leans forwards, hand on Aramis’s ribs, holding himself up, arms trembling. He moans, and shakes his hair off his face. Aramis can see him, now, and his hips roll, eyes slamming shut against the pleasure and heat. He grunts, and then groans. He doesn’t bother to stop this time. 

 

“Porthos, dear God, ah, Porthos,” he mutters, words coming incoherent, breath harsh. 

 

Porthos rides him, trembling, shaking, silent. Intent. Aramis comes first, inside Porthos, yelling, arching up off the bed and clutching at Porthos, anything he can reach. When he’s done Porthos climbs off and kneels, head back, tugging at his cock. Aramis heaves himself upright and kisses him, taking over, hand over Porthos’s slowing the rhythm. He keeps Porthos’s head close, sucking on his lip, humming into his mouth. Porthos huffs out a long breath and comes, shaking, pressing into Aramis’s hands, mouth going slack. Aramis hums again, and guides them to lie down, wrapping his arms around Porthos, holding him while they get their breath. 

 

“Better than talking, that,” Porthos gasps, and Aramis laughs. 

 

Porthos is right, though, and not just about it being more fun. There’s something between them that’s been missing, a connection, a communication. Porthos’s body is familiar again. It’s important, especially with Porthos, who doesn’t always say what he needs to, can’t always say what he needs. Can’t always ask. Porthos who trusts Aramis to be at his back, because he knows Aramis, knows his body, knows how he feels in Porthos’s space and how it feels when he enters a room, who’s body he can predict, and use. Porthos who loves him, who loved him and told him to go and find peace and wished him well. Who wanted Aramis to have what he needed. Porthos who came with the others to tell of the war but stayed afterward, just a little longer, just enough to tell Aramis he was afraid, to tell Aramis how much he needed him. Porthos who had needed him, who’d he’d let down. Porthos who still trusts him, who still wants him here, who still loves him. 

 

“I’m still hurt,” Porthos says. 

 

“Doesn’t matter,” Aramis says. “No, it does matter. I mean I can… it doesn’t matter to this. To us. You can be hurt. We’ll manage.”

 

“I missed you,” Porthos whispers. 

 

“Me, too.”

 

“Missed this,” Porthos whispers. 

 

“Yes, me too,” Aramis says. 

 

He knows Porthos means the embrace, the closeness, this, as much as he means the sex. He does mean the sex, though. He means everything. He means Aramis. From the joy and thrill of the performance to the anger after, to the knife and fruit and taste, to the sex, to their bodies, to this. Everything. All of it together, between them. Aramis wraps him tighter, closer, and presses kisses to his sweaty skin and hair, wraps his legs around Porthos’s hips. 

 

“Why do you have rooms here?” Aramis asks. 

 

“They’re not, strictly speaking, mine. Constance rents them. Away from the garrison, from the memories of d’Artagnan. He was gone a long time. She also used them when she needed to meet with someone. There are many uses a woman like Constance has to a war, here in the heart of the country, with the ear of the queen. Many people she can contact and talk with and convince. Not like this, but with food and money and safety, sometimes a place to sleep a few nights. Then when I got back she found me… anyway, she suggested I keep them for a bit.”

 

Aramis doesn’t ask anything more. Porthos will tell him about it some time, when he wants to, in some way. With his body or his voice or a touch, a story, a drink, a fight. For now, Porthos is, for all the ways he’s changed, still Porthos. He grunts into Aramis’s shoulder and relaxes. Aramis holds him for a while, then wraps him in blankets and gets up. He finds a small closet, a bowl and a jug of water there, a chamber pot. He relieves himself and cleans up, then tugs on his trousers and boots, Porthos watching him, still stretched out on the bed. His shirt is covered in fruits, and sweat, somehow tucked under Porthos. He’s still hot, anyway, skin tingling, blood quick, heart beating. He heads for the garrison, stretching in the sun, smiling, happy. Porthos joins him about fifteen minutes later, portioned out money, a grimace, fully dressed. 


End file.
